


Rainfall

by Casjuice



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling, Destiel - Freeform, Hurt and comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Storms, human!Cas, kinda poetic, vignette-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casjuice/pseuds/Casjuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel loved the rain, the wildness of storms.<br/>And the memories of the first never left him.<br/>Even after he lost his grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainfall

Clouds were always beautiful to Castiel. 

Whether they swirled and crashed through the grey skies in the forms of waves by the shoreline, whether they took on the Braille-like texture of a woollen scarf wrapped around the world to keep it warm, or whether they floated in the wildfire sunset like boulders on the surface of Mars; the soft cold shapes never failed to inspire a sense of awe in the angel.

And that was before he’d felt rain.

Standing on the barren child earth, he’d gazed up above, looking for the ethereal glow of his brothers only to have his eyes of flame kissed by the coolness of the first pitch black thunderclouds spiralling over the stars. Lips of light parted as he felt the weight felt by the forms above, the crackle of electricity, the heaviness threatening to tear the formations of fear apart. 

He waited. 

It tore.

The heavens shattered and poured over his glowing form, soaking through his fledgling wings and slipping through his celestial body. He thought he was tasting the tear drops of god; sweet and raw, turning from ice to steam on his tongue. Maybe he remembered the moment too dearly, but he recalled it as his first feeling of bliss.

And lying with his face turned to the midnight storm raging above him, millennia in the future, he felt the same. 

The dry grass that had cracked under foot was soft with water, the dusty white of the tree-trunks a darker shade of grey, the black dirt turned to coarse mud where his hands rested by his sides. He flexed his fingers, eyes closed as he felt the grains of fine gravel, the hairline roots of dead clumps of grass, the weak motion of an ant taken by nature’s surprise. 

He smiled to himself, embraced by the torrential downpour, by the howling of the wind. Once he’d known how to speak to the air, how to whisper for it to fill the space under his wings. Now he had none.

He turned turned his head and flinched when the water filled his ear, his hand instinctively raising to halt the chill. The gravel, the roots, the lost ant smudged his frost bitten skin. His breath snagged on worry but calmed when he felt the ant crawl from under his fingers to his palm, under the subtle creases and out of the heaven’s weeping. A warmth sparked in his cold and the clouds lit up with a crash, the air filling with static and the booming rumble of sheer force. A not so distant sound of cracking wood rippled the flooded air as a tree was struck down and fell to its upturned roots.

 _How long had you lived?_ Castiel wondered somewhere in his mind, _How long could you have lived if chance hadn’t torn you down?_ He asked himself if the dead had hurt others in its fall, if a nest now lay as a mix of shattered twigs and life, if a fox would be trapped as the timber covered its burrow, or if a seedling would have the sunlight stolen from its vibrant green leaves by the ashen corpse of its elder. 

Castiel curled in on himself, wet clothes clinging to him as constrictors do their prey, resting his head in his elbow, pulling his knees to his chest; the ant still safe under his palm. The bliss was fading, the cold was unsheathing its claws.

“Cas!” A voice muffled by the roaring skies echoed like a voice under the ocean, indistinct and distant. Castiel opened his eyes.

Night lifted her veil teasingly as the clouds turned to light, drowning the woodlands with whiteness for the beat of a robin’s wing, and then the veil dropped back down and he was blind once more.

The voice called again and Castiel drew himself in tighter, clutching the strands of grass tightly, the ant’s feet tickling his cheek as it moved. Water was splashing as the voice’s calls drew nearer, twigs broke and ants were crushed. Castiel didn’t close his eyes or move his body. He waited.

“Cas!” A bright flash burned in his eyes but it wasn’t lightning this time, “Cas- what the hell are you doing?”. 

Castiel didn’t shift his gaze, he could see the muddy feet of the man holding the torch, the frayed legs of worn out jeans sticking to the sturdy muscles they covered. He felt for the ant on his skin, it was still there. He listened for the rain, it was still thundering down, the wind still howling, the earth still muddy and cold. He didn’t respond when he felt warmth on his shoulder, or when the rain stopped hitting his skin.

His body was shaken and forced off the mud, his feet held his weight up and his palm took the ant in his fist. It was still moving. Castiel didn’t hear words, only sounds, articulations of thought or feeling, he didn’t listen to them as an arm wrapped around his back and urged him forward. His bare feet no longer felt mud, grass or twigs, but the dead dryness of concrete instead. The light that wasn’t lightning shone over a door. The voice he wasn’t listening to said something and led him inside. The door closed and the rain was silenced. 

The ant was still moving.

“You’re cold as ice-“ Fingers gripped his chin and forced his head to turn, moving the stretched skin on his face in odd ways that dimmed the humanity of it. He creased his brow and let his eyes focus, “What the fuck were you doing out there?” 

A face began to sharpen in the space absent of rain, eyes, a nose, lips, freckles, wet hazel hair sticking to a gently aged forehead. Another hand gripped Castiel’s shoulder and the face leant closer, the expression clearer, drawn eyebrows, anxious eyes. A silence where Castiel was supposed to answer but he didn’t. 

“Cas.” Warm breath pooled briefly on his features and his eyes shifted, looking down to his feet. “Cas, what’s wrong?” 

The ant stopped moving. 

Castiel looked up, awake. 

“Dean-“ Confusion hit him with his body’s shivering, with the feeling of cold dampness, with the soreness of his feet and joints. Disoriented, he stepped back and heard the sounds of the bunker seep back into perception, the distant static of the rain drowned out by the other noises; his breathing, dean’s breathing, the humming of the fluorescent lights. He felt hunger and thirst, he felt cold and pain. He tasted the dust in the air, the smell of old books; he felt the smooth tiles under foot and the gentle shift of the stale air. 

He blinked and saw the bunker, saw Dean’s concerned, tired expression. “Dean?”

A smile creased Dean’s cheeks and the worry faded, “You there?” 

“I think so.”

This prompted a laugh, not a loud one, just a sort of dry chuckle. Dean pulled Cas closer and hugged him warmly, Castiel enjoyed the heat of it, and the stability. The clouds were far away now. “Good.”

One arm lingered when Dean pulled away, and Castiel was glad for it. Dean led him through the corridors, turning the lights on and off as they went, opening doors for him, talking a little bit, but quietly; not loud enough to wake those who were, most likely, asleep.

One last door opened and Castiel was led into a bathroom, a tap was turned and hot water sprayed out of the shower head. “I’m gonna assume you want one, right?”. Dean took his arm from Castiel’s back and left his side, stepping out of the room, but lingering a bit before closing the door.

“Mhmm.” This was met with a smile and the door closed with a light thud, no more smile. 

…

When Castiel wandered out of the steam filled room, he smelled something other than dust in the air. His mouth pinched in that way it does when it waters and he stepped forwards, flushed toes curling at the coldness of the floor. He heard footsteps and walked towards them, catching Dean’s shape as it slipped out of a lit doorway, holding something in front of it. 

“Feeling better?” A loud whisper made its way over to Cas as Dean walked directly ahead, passing into the hall. Castiel nodded but only understood that Dean couldn’t see him doing it until after he’d reached the library. The hunter had sat at the table and raised his eyebrows when Castiel sat down opposite him. “Uhh-“

“Hm?” Cas squeezed his sides with his hands and figured out why Dean was looking at him strangely; he was only wearing a towel around his waist. “Oh.” He looked down and his skin flushed just a pinch, not enough to be seen, just enough to be felt.

“Sorry- I should have got you something to wear.” Dean flicked his eyes elsewhere briefly and pushed a bowl across the smooth wood, a tiny amount of fragrant soup splashing over the rim. A spoon followed. “Are you cold?”

“No.” As Castiel reached for his bowl, Dean took a sip from a mug of something; the scent of coffee danced with the old books. “Not really.” The soup was hot on his lips and burned his tongue, but that wasn’t really a bad thing. He hummed as he swallowed, the heat oozing down his throat painfully, but pleasantly. Dean continued to direct his eyes elsewhere.

“So,” Castiel took another spoonful as Dean spoke, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was with going out in a thunderstorm in the middle of the night?”

Dean sipped his coffee again as Castiel looked at his hand, looking for something. “I’m not sure…” The ant wasn’t there, “I just heard the rain and wandered out…” He swallowed another spoonful, Dean didn’t seem satisfied with his answer. Castiel blinked again, looking away from his hand. “It was to do with a memory, an old one. Billions of years ago.”

He felt the water seep through the fledgling wings that weren’t there, he tasted god’s tears on his tongue. He blinked the ghost away. His eyes were hot.

The mug clinked against the wood and Dean’s hot fingers brushed over Castiel’s, Castiel looked up and Dean looked sad, concerned again. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Castiel held his gaze and felt the water in his feathers again, and tasted the rawness on his tongue again. His throat hurt and his eyes burned; the heat slipped down his cheek and turned cold. Dean’s fingers squeezed his hand. Castiel’s vision blurred and he let out a choked sound. The fingers slipped away. 

He felt cold.

And then he wasn’t. Two strong arms wrapped around his bare torso and held him tightly, warmly, steadily. Cas pressed his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and let more choked sounds be heard, and more heat leave his eyes. He clung to the worn green jacket, leaned into him, pressed his chest against Dean’s warmth, shook when the loss tore itself from his lungs. Soft sounds, comforting sounds, washed out of Dean’s lips, murmured promises and hushing, reassurances; sounding sweet despite their husky tone. Castiel felt the fabric dampen as he cried; crying… he’d never cried… he sobbed harder and Dean held him tighter, let him tug harder. Let Dean lower him down and encompass his form in his arms as much as he could. Block out everything. Silence the ever present drone of the rain falling on the earth above them.

“It’s okay….” The sobs strengthened briefly and faded. The wings came back and then faded. The taste returned and then faded. Everything faded. Everything except the green jacket, except the warm body, except the strong arms; everything except Dean Winchester. “You’ll be okay.”

Castiel opened his eyes and looked up. 

Green eyes looked back.

Rosy lips pressed down.

Cracked lips pressed back.

He didn't feel cold anymore.

.


End file.
